Cerebello Nervosa
by Apple Snapple
Summary: Momo-senpai always joked around, asking me, "Is tennis all you think about, Echizen?" I wonder what my senpai would say if I said yes.
1. Chapter 1

Cerebello Nervosa

Standard Disclaimers Apply.

**A/N from hyperdude: **As the A/N title suggests, this is a collab work, with my good friend **Apple Snapple**! Please treat us kindly.

No pairings are currently planned, so this is general, but it is Ryoma-centric. This is post-Nationals, and it follows the manga storyline.

It sprouted from the quote in the summary by Momo, and wondering what it would be like if Ryoma actually couldn't physically/mentally/emotionally function without tennis. So, please enjoy this little bit of fic! :D **Apple Snapple **will take over now.

**A/N from Apple Snapple: **Heya guys! Um, I hope you enjoy? This idea was from **hyperdude**. And now we're uh…messing around with it. –nods- But yeah, we decided to post this on my profile. XD

* * *

_People say sometimes that they're obsessed with something that they enjoy._

_But those obsessions die away after a while._

_This isn't an obsession, nor is it something that I can freely say I enjoy. It's something more than that._

_It's...me..._

* * *

Tennis was a means to an end.

Looking back, those idle days spent with his mother's gentle affection smoothing over his father's harsh qualities had probably been the best days of his life. He'd probably been happy, if his baby pictures were anything to go by. It was always so hard for him to remember, and besides, it didn't seem like he had anything worth remembering anyways. But of course, with his mother not working, there was no money coming in, so she was forced to go back to work when he was three, trusting her husband to take care of her precious child.

Things did not work out so well. He instead suddenly found himself pushed into tennis when he was four, where he'd been perfectly fine with tinkering around with books and playing random things on the keyboard sitting in a dusty corner. His father did not let up, and as he was unable to catch any balls, his father released himself from the verbal confines his wife had him restricted to.

He'd never thought of himself as worthless and weak before. The first time, he thought that maybe his father wanted him to be encouraged, but it didn't matter, he didn't want to be a tennis player. But every time he tried to leave the courts, his father would drag him back all over again. So he would play.

**Over**

_Weak_

**and over**

_Worthless_

**and over**

_Stupid _

**again.**

There was the father, who'd played horsie with him in the living room, who'd laughed mockingly at his pictures, teasing him and tickling him to make up for it. Who'd failed at making dinner time and time again, so all they ended up with was a pizza they'd found in the depths of the refrigerator.

A father who didn't even call him, _'Ryoma' _half the time.

"_Oi, seishounen."_

Had it ever been about him? Four, five, six, seven years old. There were no more games, no more pizzas, no more warm father-son moments.

"_What sort of tennis player are you?_ _Get up, do it again. I'm not letting you back in the house until you do it right."_

Now there was only the porn magazines he'd started finding at five-and-a-half. There was only the wary call of his father telling him to do chores while he did nothing but stare at the TV screen, and giggle at his 'buxom beauties.'

What had happened in the time in between? What had happened to his father? Where his father used to take him in and roughly dab at his playtime injuries with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol, was now the man who left him out on the tennis courts battered with bruises from tennis balls served by his own hands.

It wasn't fun anymore.

Tennis tennis tennis. Nothing but tennis, day in, day out, on the weekends, on weekdays, afternoons, mornings, evenings, and stretching to dinnertime. The ever present threat of tennis seemed to tower over him. It was grueling, hard, work and really, there wasn't any reason for him to do anything when he was never interested in the first place…..

"_Otou-san? Can you play ball with me?"_

"_Eh? You want to play tennis? Then let's go out—" _

"—_I didn't mean tennis Otou-san. Ball."_

"…_ball? You shouldn't be wasting your time with that, seishounen. Let's play tennis instead."_

"…_but, Otou-san—"_

"_Come __**on**__, seishounen. Don't be such a pansy. You're going to be a tennis player. You're going to stand on top of the world. But not when you keep being worthless like this. You're __**weak**__. You're still so mada mada."_

"_But I don't like—"_

"_Stop whining! Just get out there and play!"_

"……_..fine, __**Oyaji**_."

Never a second glance, except when he was playing with that ball. That stupid, idiotic, ugly, _fucking_ green ball that kept messing up his life. But he had no choice.

_Otou-san, why don't you play with me anymore?_

_Why don't you say my name anymore?_

_Why don't you pay any attention to me? I'm your son…._

…_..right? _

He wanted that. He wanted it so badly. There was nothing more important than that hand on his shoulder, that proud glimmer in his eyes, that grin that sat smugly on his father's lips.

Nothing else was worth that.

So he dropped that beautiful red rubber ball, he dropped his keyboard, he dropped those childish games—blocks, toy cars, board games—and he picked up that horrid ball, and that ugly feeling racket, and that stupid white cap.

_**I hate tennis. **_

His room was a tennis haven.Scattered around were his tennis rackets, his jerseys, his tennis videos that were stacked up in one corner, tennis magazines. Tennis, tennis, tennis. A stranger would look at is as an innocent hobby, an innocent obsession for the sport. A sport that surrounded him day by day, night by night, like a dark cloud enveloping him, suffocating him.

Tennis consumed his life. He didn't talk to anyone, didn't play with anyone. He ate lunch by himself, thought to himself, did projects mostly by himself, read by himself. He didn't interact with anyone, or anything other than that ball. He didn't want to play tennis, he _had_ to play tennis. There was no other way to win over those eyes. It didn't matter either, because all that mattered was a neon ball and the grin of a proud father.

The move to New York when he was eight changed nothing. The tennis didn't change, and neither did he. There was still no one to be friends with, still no one to talk to, but by then it had been so long since he had even _had_ anyone that he had forgotten what it was like. No one knew him, and he didn't know anyone. He didn't even register the loneliness, it was just something that was there, everyday. He didn't even think of it as loneliness, just that lump of nothing sitting in his chest.

Lump of nothing. It was what he was becoming, it was what he was. He knew that, understood, dimly, distantly, that he was losing himself to tennis. He was obsessed with that little green ball, with the swing and feel of a racket, copying his father's every move, his every stroke. And that nothing spread like a _disease_, swallowing him up, moving down through his body, through veins and arteries, moving into his lungs, his liver, his kidneys, his brain, his heart.

By the time he was ten, he'd already disappeared.

Disappearance from the world should have been scarier than this, more frightening, more _overwhelming_.

But as he slowly disappeared from the world, he felt, surprisingly, nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Cerebello Nervosa

**Standard Disclaimers Apply.**

**A/N: from hyperdude:** Hi! This time it was **Apple Snapple** who did the 'base' manuscript for this chapter; I did the last one! Thanks for all your support.

We actually had a question, this time. So what exactly does, 'Cerebello Nervosa' mean? 'Cerebello' is Italian for brain (courtesy of Google Translator XD) and I coined Nervosa because, though I haven't found a definite definition for the word, is usually used in conjunction with medical disorders, like bulimia (bulimia nervosa) or anorexia (anorexia nervosa).

With that, I hope you enjoy the rest of this chapter!

**A/N: from Apple Snapple: **Yeah, basically, I did the base manuscript and I…died. If it wasn't for **hyperdude**…this totally wouldn't have made sense. SO THANK HER. XD.

* * *

"Look, Ryoma, it's the National's trophy that we won this year!" Horio said loudly, pointing at the trophy that was being displayed in a glass cabinet that was next to the staff lounge, shining proudly and sparkling in the light. "Can you believe it, we won!"

"Che," Echizen said, not actually looking at the trophy. He seemed too busy looking at the ground, and wasn't really listening to Horio's antics.

"Aren't you even paying attention?" Horio asked impatiently, pulling on Echizen's arm, which made the latter look up in surprise, since he had been too deep in thought. His eyes came in contact with that sparkling trophy, the smooth metal, the _vastness_ of it that made Echizen feel dizzy and he jerked away, his movement so sudden that it startled the freshman trio that was standing next to him. The unexpected contact seemed to burn through his clothes, and his skin prickled where Horio had touched him. The rowdy first-year's touch seemed much more invasive than any of the jostling he received from his senpai-tachi.

"Echizen?" Katsuo asked uncertainly as the trio eyed him, confusion clearly etched in their faces.

"Class is starting soon," Echizen muttered, turning his back on them and walking away.

None of them really suspected that that single jerk of the arm was what started the confusion, started everything.

* * *

Echizen Nanjirou looked up in surprise as he saw his son charging through the house, not even stopping to look at the magazine he was holding in his hands in disgust. Rather, his son charged through the house as if no one was there, and went into his room and slammed the door, causing the whole house to shake.

Nanjirou shrugged and continue looking through his magazine, humming happily as he looked through his treasures. His son's behavior probably was just some teenage hormones acting up; there was really nothing to worry about. He would probably go back to his old self in a couple of days, if not a week.

At least, that was what he thought the problem was.

Meanwhile Echizen in his room had grabbed his tennis racket and he was torn between throwing the offending thing out the window or staring at the thing. He chose the latter of the two options, his hand shaking with the effort.

That trophy that he had seen; the glistening of the metal as if it were laughing at him, laughing at his confused state. It was so pure, nothing was wrong with having a trophy, and he felt sick even just remembering how it looked like. Those three freshmen smiling while pointing at that cup proudly, happy that their school had won Nationals. That golden tint, the stupid _handles_, he hated everything about that thing that he had helped the team win. He could feel those handles scraping on his neck, intending to choke him, still laughing all the while.

There was _nothing_ good about winning Nationals; _nothing_ good about having a trophy if tennis was involved. It was something that had taken him away from the outside world, and yet he had managed to unlock the Pinnacle, an impossible feat if someone hated tennis.

Tennis had taken away everything from him, and yet he had room in his heart to actually _like_ this sport. He had thought he had reached rock bottom, but after Nationals he felt like he was still falling, falling in a never ending spiral, as if it still had something left to take away from him; as if taking away his true self wasn't enough. It wanted more, and it didn't care if Echizen had nothing left to give.

It was just so unfair. He wanted to stop playing tennis, and yet if he did, he would become nothing. It was everything to him now, and if he let go of that sport, there was nothing for him to do in this world.

It was just so unfair.

He wanted to be stronger, wanted to be more powerful, and show all of them what he had, but the gap between him and the best of the middle-school circuit was just too great. The win against Yukimura didn't mean anything. Yukimura Seiichi, Child of God, blinded him, stole away his senses and his sanity, had already beaten him. It didn't matter what the official score said; the honest truth was just that—Yukimura had beat him without even using a tennis racket.

Echizen had only won because he'd used the Pinnacle. But Yukimura had been playing normally, in fact, he'd been even weaker than usual, having just come out of surgery. Not only that, but according to Fuji and Sanada, Yukimura too, had opened the State of Self-Actualization. If a normal Yukimura was so good, what would Yukimura be like with the Pinnacle? Sanada? Atobe? Tezuka? Fuji?

Without them knowing, they had already all left him behind.

He wasn't special at all; he was too slow, too weak. He'd trained nonstop for almost nine years of his life only to reach the level of skill that Atobe had gained in three years.

Three years. Only.

And everyone adapted on the court. Fuji against Shiraishi, Tezuka against Sanada, two great examples of why adaption was not even a talent that he could call his. All he could do was copy Horio, _'I'll beat them all with my nine years of tennis experience!'_

Useless.

The Pinnacle was not enough, being happy with just tennis was not enough. He had to be stronger, faster, play harder, play better. And it became an addiction.

Every day, he had to play. He could feel the racket in his hand instead of his pencil during class, hear the bounce of balls on the courts instead of the teacher's voice, feeling the rush of adrenaline and the wind in his hair and soon his body would be itching to play. Practice in the morning and the afternoon became the highlights of his day. He was more earnest in his tennis than ever, and he was delighted with his own progress, disregarding that every time he even heard something similar to the noise of a ball he would want to play, forgetting that it was bad to stay up past midnight hitting a ball against the wall, and didn't remember what it was like not having _I want to play tennis _be the only thought that ran through his head.

And one Saturday morning, as he could barely stand still in the line in the grocery store he realized with stunning clarity what was happening to him.

Still he ignored it, and soon days and nights ran together in a series of neon green balls. People began to ask him if anything was wrong, but he would shake his head no, and still not admit it to himself.

He couldn't say it. Tennis was his life. It was all he had. He was worth nothing without tennis. If he didn't have tennis, he wouldn't have his senpai-tachi, if he didn't have tennis, he wouldn't have any value to him. If he didn't have tennis, he would've been completely tossed aside by his father, would've never gone to Seigaku, would've been thrown aside, unwanted, unneeded, like trash. It didn't matter if his hands would shake during classes, needing that beautiful green ball, or if he would go half-delirious on weekend trains thinking of how much he wanted to be on that beloved court.

He needed that power. He needed to be worth something, needed to stay, needed not to be thrown away.

And then one day he looked into the mirror and asked himself for the first time, _Who am I?_

Black bags, sallow, colorless skin. A stranger. He couldn't remember what he looked like when he wasn't tired. Sleepiness and exhaustion were now part of every day life, squeezed in between tennis, tennis and more tennis. Looking at the photo of Seigaku after the Nationals, he traced a finger over his own face.

Golden eyes, white cap, short black hair. His hair had been long once, to his shoulders, like a girl's. His father had wanted a girl, a cute daughter. But he'd given up on his father a long time ago, and he'd cut his hair off with a kitchen knife when he'd made that decision.

_This is me…._

He couldn't tell anymore. There didn't seem to be much to him, when he wasn't paired with tennis. And the more he looked at the picture, the less he could see of himself. As he thought, he tried to pin himself down. But there was nothing to pin himself down with. He had no personality, had no talents, except for tennis, had nothing unique about him, had nothing.

He could feel that emptiness, when he'd been consumed so long ago. Consumed. Eaten. Devoured.

By tennis.

_Faster, stronger, you're too weak, too useless! Get him to notice you! Get them to see you with their own eyes! You're nothing! Useless, trash, nothing!_

Nothing.

He was nothing.

He had nothing.

Standing in his room, racket clutched tight in his hand. A lifeline. What else did he have, what could he have? He'd ignored it for so long, that other kind of nothing that had emerged after the Nationals. It ate, bit by bit, and he crumbled like brittle glass. He knew this time, that if he was eaten, he would be gone for good. And it was frightening as it crashed down upon him.

He didn't know who he was, what he was. All he could do now was play tennis. It was all he'd been doing. Tennis, tennis. He felt happy when he played, and it drew him in like honey to a bee. Stronger, faster, harder, _happier_.

It was so unfair. His one happiness was breaking him.

He stared at his hands, and flexed one around the handle of a racket, clenching the other in a fist. They seemed to flicker in and out in the fluorescent light of his room, there one moment, see trough the next, only an empty space before his eyes.

_I want to be happy. I want to play tennis. _

_Play. Play. Play. Play._

His hand shook, and the racket dropped to the carpeted floor, sound muffled by its fibers.

"…..What's wrong with me…?"


	3. Chapter 3

Echizen's photo interested him. The freshman was so good at keeping out of the way, hiding himself in the photo's glossy corners, a convenient hat brim or strategically placed arm always in the way. Echizen, it seemed, had mastered the art of avoiding media.

Even Pro Tennis Monthly had problems getting pictures of him; he moved so much during tennis matches that photos often turned out blurry, and the Seigaku jacket and aforementioned hat had the effect of reducing the player's face to sprightly sprays of fine black hair, a nose and a mouth.

The picture he had taken for yearbook was probably the only picture of Echizen--in existence-- taken so clearly, so candidly.

The minute Fuji got home he hooked up his flash card to his well used USB port, and scanned eagerly through the photos of his day to day life, scrolling down to the bottom and clicking open the file 'IMG0513'. The pit of excitement boiling in his chest minutes before froze into a tiny ball before shrinking down to the size of an atom and rolling away like tumbleweed in a desert.

This was possibly the worst photo he had ever taken.

Brown eyes stared out blankly from a doll-like face, not particularly unattractive, and not hideous, but the whole image gave off the vibe of something forbidden locked up in a glass coffin; it was okay to see, but not to touch.

It was so blank, so unemotional. The whole picture seemed to have turned gray, even with the bright blue of the Seigaku jacket. Colors were leeched, turned to a stark monochrome and those eyes looked like the kind that were dug out of corpses sockets to be place in jars of formaldehyde, forever staring at a room's occupants with horrid accuracy, the weight of a bottomless pit held within a small porcelain face.

Fuji shivered. Something was obviously wrong. Every picture had a soul. Eiji's were always brimming with energy, Tezuka's with a secure, leadership, Kawamura's and Oishi's were full with a brimming, kind, warmth.

But Echizen's picture contained nothing.

_--nervosa--_

It was a tennis practice like any other tennis practice. The tennis team were running laps, Inui prodding them on with an evil look on his face, this time holding something yellow in a container.

Ochibi was pretty quiet these days, Kikumaru thought as he jogged beside his doubles partner. He shot a bright smile to Fuji as he passed, and worked his legs a little harder. He couldn't let his friend get that far ahead.

Little Echizen Ryoma. He fought down the urge to giggle as he thought of it. He was so cute, with that perpetual scowl and large eyes peering underneath a large cap brim. And he was so easy to hug, just the right size, nice and compact with a little firmness to his skin but not an overwhelming squishiness. Like the perfect teddy bear. One that growled at you.

And that was what Echizen Ryoma did after Kikumaru tackled him from behind, right in the middle of running laps. He growled, and Kikumaru giggled again. "Ochibi, you're so serious when you're running laps!" he exclaimed.

"Che," Echizen scoffed, looking off to the side with his usual disinterested expression. He was too tired to fight his senpai today; he was still tired from practice on the home court last night.

"Ochibi, cheer up, nya!" Kikumaru scolded, slapping the back of the freshman's head lightly. "It's such a wonderful day, and there aren't any clouds! You seem so down!"

Echizen just gave his overly happy senpai a flat look as Kikumaru, ever cheerful and tactile perched his chin on top of Echizen's cap-covered head. "And you're surrounded by friends, aren't you? So smile!"

Echizen looked at him straight in the eyes suddenly, causing Kikumaru to pause in surprise for a few seconds. "Kikumaru-senpai is always smiling," the freshman stated.

"Of course!" Kikumaru grinned at his favorite freshman, recovering quickly.

Echizen scowled. "Why do you say that? That 'of course'. It's like you expect everyone to be happy."

"Mou, Ochibi's so mean!" Kikumaru exclaimed, pouting. "Of course everyone's supposed to be happy! You can't be depressed always!"

"That's rude and presumptive, Kikumaru-senpai," Echizen snapped back. He didn't seem to notice that Kikumaru's normally tight grip was loosening a little. "Not everyone is happy. And what about you? Why are you always smiling?"

"I'm always smiling because I'm happy, Ochibi," Kikumaru defended. "There's no reason for everyone to not be happy!"

"Well, why are you happy senpai?" Echizen asked. "Can you tell me why? Why are you happy? Why does everyone have no reason not to be happy?"

"I'm happy because I have friends, Ochibi," Kikumaru said quietly. Both of them had stopped running a long time ago, and Kikumaru was backing away slowly, until he was arm's length apart from the boy. "There's no reason for anyone to be unhappy, Ochibi."

Echizen stared at him, and gave him a bitter-looking smirk. "You're not smiling anymore, Kikumaru-senpai." He tugged the brim of his hat down sharply, and glanced backwards at his senpai through the corner of his eyes as he began to run again. "And it seems like you don't have anything to be happy about after all."

_--nervosa--_

Taka had always been such a kind child. He liked the fish that swam around in that cheery little aquarium at home, which was quite ironic seeing as his family was made of sushi chefs, he liked sunny days and the dew that beaded on the grass in the morning.

If one were to ask him how content he was with his life right now, he would answer readily that yes, he was very content. He had many great friends, and he knew lots of people that played tennis well, like Tezuka or Echizen for example.

Tennis was fun. He didn't have to restrain himself there. He was really quite shy most of the time and every so once in a while he needed to let the more bombastic side of him out, and he found tennis was a great way. It had just happened one day, his first time gripping a racket, and then swinging, lightly, gingerly, then feeling such anger for not being able to say a word, for not being able to speak his mind and he suddenly swung with such power and he didn't notice the "BURNING, BABY!" that ripped from his lips.

Today though, during tennis practice of all things, Taka had a strange feeling that something was wrong. Kikumaru, who would usually jump on Echizen, seemed to have had the life sucked out of him. The red-haired boy was gripping his racket so hard that there just had to be something wrong.

There didn't seem to be anything wrong with Echizen, but it was Echizen, it was always hard to tell with him. He had been looking a little more tired lately, but it was just the smudge under his eyes, there was nothing to worry about.

Just then, Kikumaru cried out and threw his racket down on the ground, pushing past Tezuka who was just about to open his mouth and reprimand him for throwing his tennis racket in such a fashion. The boy disappeared, and Taka turned back to Echizen to realize that the freshman had a small smirk on his lips.

It was a strange one. Different. His usual smirks were just a small crease in the corner of his lips, but this one was hard, sun glinting off hazel browns with the dull matte shine of chrome on a bike, and his mouth was stiff and mocking, patronizing. It was a sinister expression.

"Echizen?" Taka said hesitatingly, staring at the expression on the freshman's face. "Is there something wrong?"

Echizen pinned him down with a quiet stare, burning holes into his forehead. "No," he said slowly. "Why?"

"You just seem a little tired," Taka answered, something at the back of his mind telling him that there was something wrong; that this wasn't normal. "Are you sick?"

"No."

Echizen looked away. When Taka felt the silence growing, he lifted his foot, intending to leave, when Echizen spoke again.

"Normally, Taka-senpai, we don't even talk. What makes today so different?"

"We do talk sometimes, Echizen," Taka insisted.

"But not normally," Echizen pressed on. "So what's so different about today?"

Taka opened his mouth wordlessly, closed it. He couldn't say much about that.

He'd walked over because of Eiji, hadn't he. He'd been intending to inquire about Echizen's health first, then ask him why he was giving Eiji the Evil Eye. There was no reason for him to. But Echizen was always so rude and in a lot of ways extremely obnoxious and the more he thought about it, the angrier he got.

"What did you do to Eiji?" he asked, voice quiet.

"What do you mean...Taka-senpai?" There it was, that infernal smirk.

"You know what I'm talking about. Don't think nobody saw that look you gave him."

"What look?" Echizen turned away, tugging at his cap.

"Echizen! Don't play innocent! What did you do to Eiji!" Echizen sent him a sharp glare and began to amble off, but Taka gripped him by the shoulder roughly and spun him around, clenching powerful hands in the freshman's collar and dragging him up so far that his feet almost came off the floor.

"I didn't do anything to him!" Echizen shouted angrily, causing some heads to turn in surprise. "_He _was the one that kept on assuming everyone should be happy! _He_'s the one who doesn't understand anything!"

"What are you talking about Echizen?" Taka asked, his grip loosening. There was something in the air, and it chilled him.

Echizen glared at him and managed to free himself from his senpai. "It's nothing," he mumbled, walking off and straightening his cap.

As Echizen walked away to his next match, Taka felt strangely hollow; he had missed something important, but he didn't know what it was. Nor could he explain why he had felt a tinge of fear when the freshmen gave him one last fleeting look.

_--nervosa--_

"Eiji?"

The door of the tennis clubroom creaked a little as Oishi gingerly stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. His footsteps sounded outrageously loud in the silence of the clubroom so usually filled with exuberant noise.

He found Kikumaru sitting against the last row of lockers, facing the wall.

"Eiji, you have to get back to practice," Oishi admonished, walking over to the acrobatics player. "Tezuka's going to get angry with you if you don't come back soon."

"Oishi..."

Kikumaru had his knees folded up to his chest, and his face was buried in them. Oishi sighed, sitting down beside his doubles partner and scooted closer, so that their shoulders were touching.

"Oishi...I fought with Ochibi today..."

"Ha?! With Echizen? How as that even possible? He's so...so..."

Kikumaru shook his head. "I don't even know how it started, he just asked me a strange question and then...I don't even know what happened."

"...Do you want to talk about it?"

Kikumaru shook his head sadly. "There's really nothing to talk about, we just had a fight, is all." He got up, and paused. "Oishi?"

"Yes, Eiji?" Oishi watched his friend warily. Eiji had really gotten attached to Echizen, and to have Eiji behaving like this afterwards indicated that it was something serious.

"There's something wrong," Kikumaru said, looking unsure of himself. "I don't know what it is, but something's just wrong."

"...You mean with Echizen, huh." He wasn't sure when, but situations in the tennis club had become tense, and their freshman rookie seemed to be at the center of things.

Kikumaru nodded, looking relieved that his doubles partner understood his feeling. "Oishi, I don't know what's going on."

Oishi shifted uneasily. "It's Echizen...he looks so tired these days- sometimes its like he's a zombie..."

Kikumaru nodded. "He isn't happy, Oishi."

"Has he ever been?" Oishi sighed as he got up, dusting off the seat of his shorts. "I don't think I've ever heard him laugh."

"What should we do then?" Kikumaru asked. "What can we do, nya?"

"Echizen probably won't tell us anything," Oishi told him grimly. "We'll have to wait for him to come to us."

Just then Tezuka came into the locker rooms, reprimanding both of them about missing tennis practice and how they shouldn't idle, and ordered them each twenty laps.

They both complied readily, but the troubling thoughts of their kouhai stayed with them throughout tennis practice.


	4. Chapter 4

What in the world had he done to deserve such a weird kid? He didn't smile, he didn't laugh, and he didn't bring hot babes home. Honestly, if it weren't for the way he smirked and his trademark phrase, Nanjirou would've thought his son wasn't his son at all.

The kid couldn't even get his tennis right. He had spent nine years trying to perfect his tennis, and nine years only got him this far.

He had to give the kid a little credit though. He was of smaller build than a lot of other players; the strength that seishounen had in his arms now were the results of hard work and a lot of mule-headed stubbornness.

And life wouldn't be as interesting without him. That boy was so fun to tease, the way he would pout almost outrageously whether he was aware of it or not, and it was always so funny the way the kid would try to look threatening, but end up looking like a teddy bear instead.

It wasn't that he didn't like the kid or anything. it was just that sometimes the kid really got on his nerves, the way he didn't seem to be like a normal twelve year old boy.

Why wasn't that brat out with his friends, smoking, or doing drugs? Even having the idiot snort cocaine was better than this strange isolation. Why hadn't he reacted to any of the porn lying around the house, why hadn't he ever brought anyone home, female or otherwise?

The only one the brat ever seemed to talk to was Karupin. And Karupin was the Spawn of Hell, so he didn't count. And Karupin was a Cat, so he still didn't count.

He didn't know what had happened to his son; the boy seemed to have all emotions drained out of him. And Nanjirou sincerely believed that tennis wasn't the cause. It must have been something else. Perhaps his son had lost something important to him over the years, or maybe he had gotten rejected by a girl and his father hadn't found out.

It was strange. When Ryoma was little he'd followed him all over the place like a puppy, demanding to be lifted up, or to be fed, or to have his diaper changed. Even as he grew older, when he hadn't felt like he'd been getting enough of it, Ryoma would demand his father's attention, through tennis or by other means.

Daily fights, shredded magazines, and sweat on a green court were their hugs and kisses, and the swift smack to the back of the head and the face full of porn were just their other ways of saying 'I love you.'

Their relationship had been a strange one, but it was a healthy relationship nonetheless, in Nanjirou's opinion. He had seen nothing wrong with it; it was just another way of expressing their feelings, but in a more refined manner. Any other way would have been too awkward for the both of them.

But Ryoma was throwing it all off. He didn't see much of the boy anymore; he was always studying or playing tennis. While it was great to see such enthusiasm inclined toward the sport, it was slightly worrisome when Ryoma began to spend time with his racket and ball past midnight. He looked more tired these days, and they barely ever fought anymore.

Nanjirou almost missed the fights that he used to have with his son. Anything at least, to have some kind of communication with him. But the boy was steadily fading away from him, little by little, and he didn't know what to do about it.

"I'm home." Quiet, almost invisible. A small shadow walked into the house, and Ryoma paid him no mind as he dropped his tennis gear down by the dining room table and dragged himself toward the stairs. He looked dead on his feet, body hunched and toes dragging slightly.

"Wait." Ryoma stopped, glanced at his father with cold indifference. Nanjirou made himself look back. "Seishounen...is there something you want to tell me?"

"No," Ryoma answered, blunt and to the point. And there really was nothing that was to be discussed with his father; there hadn't been anything that needed to be discussed in years, really.

He watched his son trudge up the stares, step by step. His back hadn't gotten bigger at all; he was still the same boy who'd stared up at him with liquid golden eyes and a million dollar smile and raised his hands with a demanding, 'Up!'

He didn't remember when Ryoma started calling him Oyaji.

_--nervosa--_

Something is wrong with Echizen. It had always been hinted at before, it's blatantly obvious now. And it's annoying to hear everyone talking about it; all of them know something's wrong with him and there's no point in talking about it if none of them will do anything.

So he decides to ask somebody. Someone who will understand the first year, someone who gets him on a wavelength that no one else in the world possesses.

"Buchou…do you know what's wrong with Echizen?"

Tezuka looks at him for a moment, seems to want to say something, pauses, and ends up not saying anything. Kaidou waits for his answer, knowing that his captain will give him one eventually.

The captain's brow furrows. "I...don't know."

"But you know that something's wrong, right?" Kaidou prods on. "You must know."

Tezuka shakes his head, solemn in his stoical poise. He swings his racket bag onto his shoulder, shuts his locker with a click of the lock and gathers his school things.

"You're leaving?" Kaidou's voice is a little incredulous, and Tezuka knows what he is thinking. "Don't you care about Echizen at all?"

Tezuka doesn't answer, and Kaidou waits. "...That's not it."

"Fsssh! What is it then? Echizen may be a brat, but he's still our kouhai."

Tezuka looks at Kaidou for a long moment, before he averts his gaze to the floor. He eventually turns around and walks away for a second time, and Kaidou makes no move to stop him.

_--nervosa--_

He was Echizen's best friend.

It was something to be proud of, to be the best friend of such an antisocial kid, it made him feel special, privileged.

He was by no means, however, the closest thing that Echizen ever cherished. In fact, Momo reckoned that Echizen liked his cat more than any of his friends. Truthfully, Echizen wasn't Momo's best friend either. There were many more people that Momo hung out with who were ten times more pleasant than his sometimes irritating kouhai.

It wasn't that Momo disliked him or thought him annoying. He just wished that the boy would sometimes smile more, or give out a laugh once in a while. It was a bit irking to see Echizen so calm all the time. He certainly didn't act like any of the other people who were in the tennis club.

It was like watching a robot. All his responses were the same. How many times had he seen that smirk appear on his face as an answer to yet another question?

During his lunchtime naps too, Echizen always woke up right before the first bell rang. It was creepy, it was weird, and it was just plain unnatural.

If Momo had been four years old when he met Echizen, he definitely would have screeched and pointed at the boy, calling him an alien and running away. But the now almost fourteen year old tennis player did not do that. Rather, he just watched Echizen, day by day, who always had that same old smirk on his face.

Sometimes he wondered about it, why he was even friends with someone like Echizen. He was the sort of emotionless, arrogant person that was always the type he had hated and he surprised himself one day when he figured out that he actually liked his first year kouhai.

If it had been anyone other than Echizen, he probably would have punched the kid in the face already. But, no, Echizen had some sort of quality that was different from all those other arrogant, emotionless people that Momo hated.

It was ironic. Even though Echizen was always so cocky, he always tried his best. It was almost admirable, how he had kick-started Seigaku into their current regiment. Like Oishi-senpai had said, Echizen's determination and drive were contagious.

It seemed that all the boy ever thought about was tennis, tennis, tennis, tennis, always tennis, as if he couldn't get enough of it. Momo had always asked Echizen if he always thought about tennis, but all he got was a smirk and a 'mada mada dane'.

He wasn't expecting to get a serious answer.

"Yes."

"...What?"

"I said yes, Momo-senpai." This time, the smirk was absent from the boy's face.

"You asked me a question, didn't you?" Momoshiro stopped, stunned, putting his foot down on the asphalt of the road. Echizen stepped off the extended axles of Momo's bike. The second-year had gotten them especially for him, after the first few times of dual bike riding.

"Well, I answered," Echizen said simply, crossing his arms. "Isn't that what you wanted, an answer?"

"You weren't supposed to say yes!" Momo yelled at him incredulously.

"You wanted me to lie?" Echizen snapped at him, pinning him with a golden glare. "Friends don't do that to each other, senpai."

Mocking. Mocking, this, was this even a friendship at all?

"Do you even consider me as a friend?" Momo asked him, staring back at him. "What exactly am I to you anyway, Echizen? Something that's second-rate compared to tennis?"

Echizen turned to him as he continued to walk past him. "What _are_ you to me, Momo-senpai?"

"I don't know! Isn't that what you're supposed to tell me?!"

Echizen didn't even spare him a glance this time. "You don't have to pick me up anymore, Momo-senpai."

"Hey! You haven't even given me an answer yet! And what do you mean I don't have to pick you up anymore?" Momo demanded.

"You heard me. You're not deaf. I said you don't need to pick me up anymore."

"What?! Echizen! What are you trying to pull?! Give me a proper answer and stop lying!"

"You don't want to hear this answer, and I don't want to answer you. What makes you think I'm lying?"

"You can't think about tennis every single day, Echizen," Momo said. "You have other hobbies, don't you?"

Echizen gave him a flat look. "What makes you think I lied about that? Do you have any proof? Not everyone can freely flit from hobby to hobby. Some people don't have a choice."

"Don't have a choice? Of course you have a choice! Everyone always has a choice!" Momo yelled, chasing after Echizen, wheeling the bike along beside him.

"You're just as stupid as Kikumaru-senpai," Echizen snarled, walking even faster. "And you're all just as ignorant and idiotic."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Momo flinched back, thoroughly offended. "And what did you do to Eiji-senpai anyway?!"

"Che," Echizen snorted. "I didn't do anything to him," he said disdainfully. Don't pick me up tomorrow, Momo-senpai."

"Wha-Echizen, you-"

"Shut up, and don't pick me up tomorrow. I don't want to see you."

Only a lonely blue painted bike and a shadow stayed behind to keep Momo company.

_--nervosa--_

Inui had spent most of his life poring through his green composition notebooks, jotting down notes and making sure he didn't forget any details. It was something that he had picked up from childhood, after he had gotten a 80 on his math quiz. He vowed afterwards to take notes on everything, from human behaviors to academics, just so he wouldn't fail again.

It really paid off for him. His little habit let him see an array of things that others always glossed over, made him perceptive, honing his natural instincts of observance to a fine point.

He knew all of his friends like the back of his hand. He knew their behaviors, how they would react, what tennis move they would use, everything. Their facial expressions he could outline clearly, noticing whenever they were in a good mood or in a bad mood. Inui was confident in his observational skills, confident that his observations weren't ever going to fail.

Data was reliable. Numbers were concrete, something he could hold on to, and his faith in science would never let him down.

He'd never abandon his data. The very idea was inconceivable on such a large scale; it would take Armageddon to rip him away from his notebooks.

So when the very first murmurs about Echizen's peculiarities began to stir, he ignored them. When Echizen and Kikumaru began to rub each other the wrong way, he didn't see anything wrong with it; there had always been a 5.967 percent chance that Echizen would get sick of being glomped at one point, and blow up.

When he saw Momo during tennis practice looking very upset, he didn't even pay a second glance at it. After all, there was always a 43 percent chance that Momo would seem depressed; it'd just blow over after a couple of days.

And that argument between Taka and Echizen was not all that unexpected. Of course Echizen, being a naturally private person, would be irritated at being interrogated about his personal dealings with Kikumaru.

So, being Seigaku's data tennis player, Inui Sadaharu really didn't see the fact that there was something abnormal about the tennis team, that these events happening all at the same time weren't normal at all.

It all fit in with the data.

And the data was never wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

Cerebello Nervosa

**Standard Disclaimers Apply.**

**A/N from hyperdude: **Thanks again for your feedback! Apparently, Inui keeps data to beat Tezuka in canon. Sorry, we didn't know that. Then again, it is FANfiction (gotta love that super-convenient excuse).

**A/N from Apple Snapple:** I'd like to thank all of the readers out there who've given us awesome reviews/criticism. XD

We hope you guys enjoy chapter 5!!

* * *

He stood in front of the mirror, and tried to smile.

Kikumaru-senpai had a nice smile, he thought as he stubbornly tried to move the mouth muscles that simply wouldn't work for him. It was cute, he supposed, and comforting. If one was more poetic, one might say that it was the kind that brightened someone's day. Fuji senpai's smiles were nice too, especially the real ones. Otherwise, sometimes seeing a smiling face every day was just a nice thing to see, sort of like hot chocolate on a cold winter's night, or a nice day in the summer not made of scorching heat and heat waves rising off the asphalt.

Momo-senpai had the kind of smile that wanted to be everybody's friend, Inui had the diabolical one, and Kawamura just had the all-around good guy smile. Kaidoh's was soft and gentle, oddly suited to him though his personality was harsh and coarse. Buchou had a smile too, but it was always tiny, and it was usually one of satisfaction at having a job well done. Oishi-senpai's was warm and caring, suiting his persona as Seigaku's 'Mama.'

What sort of smile did he have?

Sunken cheeks, black circles under the eyes, limp black hair and pale, sickly skin. And he smiled at himself, the joker, the jester, the fool.

So bittersweet it was. He was burning all his bridges and sinking all his ships, blocking all his escape routes and caging himself in a never-ending labyrinth and he couldn't stop himself.

Tired. Exhausted. Lethargic. Languid. Phlegmatic.

He buried himself in the steam of hot water, told himself it was okay, told himself that this was fine, this was good, and it didn't matter that he was taking a shower at three in the morning with still some homework left to do, and that he needed to get to school at seven.

It didn't matter that he had to wake up so early, it didn't matter that he probably wouldn't be able to finish his homework today, and it didn't matter that he hadn't been able to smile for at least eight years.

None of it mattered.

_--cerebello--_

Tennis practice seemed to be a bit strained lately, although Echizen paid no attention to the differences in the courts. Most of the regulars were now a bit tense, but the first year and second years didn't notice any changes. They were the same old lot; annoying, loud, eager to show off their mediocre skills.

Echizen hated it. He hated their stupidity, hated how irritating they were. He wondered why they could smile so freely, why they were so happy in such a maddening world filled with despair. Nothing was good about being in this world, things were too monotonous, it was too easy to fall into oblivion.

He was already long gone, weeks ago. He just wanted that heady rush, that glorious happiness lifting him up just one more time in a tidal wave before he crashed back down, reality firmly clonking him in the back of his head and taking away everything he had. He hated how everyone could get that happiness so easily. Why couldn't he be happy too? Why couldn't he have friends, the real kind? Why couldn't he have a _life_, without tennis, just a normal twelve year old kid?

They didn't understand, and they didn't try to understand. There had been so many times, when he'd been so exhausted, so tired. So many times he just wanted to give up and cry and scream and pound at the walls that held him in and bleed himself out. He'd thought of suicide, of red-colored pills, blood-stained knives, hospital beds and funeral coffins. He'd thought of those ropes, those wheat-colored ropes that looked so harmless when in reality they hurt if one so much as touched them.

He didn't have the strength to do it. There had been so many open wounds and there were a multitude of times where there had been open-ended questions, unanswered actions, but no one ever said a word to him, even though he could see the question in everybody's eyes.

He wasn't strong enough. He needed them to ask for him; there wasn't any other way.

He couldn't drag himself out anymore, and he hated them all the more for pushing it all aside, forgetting it. It felt like betrayal, even though the practical side of his brain told them that his senpai couldn't fix something they didn't know was broken. He didn't want to stay in that dark place where nobody wanted him, and he didn't want to die. He wanted to scream at them to look at him, to take a really good look.

He couldn't do this on his own.

_Ask. Ask. Ask what's wrong with me. Help me. Help me. Please?_

_Don't brush this aside. Where are your senpai when you need them? Where is the help you promised me? Aren't you always supposed to stand by me?_

Bitter; _they've all left you because you drove them away._

_No one is going to come help you now. _

And he can't do anything but lock himself up in the shrine at midnight, curled around his pillow, screaming, screaming, screaming, and he just wanted to go to sleep, and why wasn't anyone helping him?

_--cerebello--_

Echizen was slow in tennis that day. Last in laps, but Inui went easy and gave the Inui Juice to someone else, and his sleep-weary, tennis-sick eyes slid over the worried looks of his senpai, while his right hand massaged sore arm muscles from two in the morning. He was slow to react, and Momo actually won that day, a sure indication that something was wrong.

Still nobody asked.

When they changed in the locker room, no one asked Echizen how he had lost that weight, no one asked why his skin was translucent, no one asked why he hadn't spoken a single word during practice, and even though his senpai sent him worried looks, no one said a thing to him. Echizen trudged out the clubroom with dragging toes, and as he made his way back home, he felt his eyes burn.

Karupin twined around his legs as he walked to his room, not really conscious as he reached for the tennis racket propped up on the side of his bed. In sudden realization, he jerked his hand away, clutched it to his chest in a sort of horrified epiphany, backed away and ran to the bathroom. The door slammed loudly behind it as he propped himself up over the sink, breathing heavily. His hands shook, shocks traveling up his arms, making him weak.

_Help me._

He choked on the unnamed sludge that came up to his throat, something thick, and pasty; the tears washed down his face as he realized what he had turned himself into while the bottle containing his mother's sleeping pills winked at him merrily from the half open cabinet-mirror. He only sobbed harder because he knew he couldn't do it. There wasn't anything he could do, because he couldn't let go of that feeling of happiness, couldn't forget his father's proud face as he beat down Yukimura at Nationals, couldn't forget the hugs he'd gotten and the cheers and that _damned trophy_, and he couldn't forget stupid, fucking_** tennis. **_

And just like that, Ryoma knew what to do.

_--cerebello--_

_Tezuka Kunimitsu-senpai:_

_I regret to inform you that I can no longer uphold my position in the tennis club. My resignation form is enclosed. _

_Thank you. _

_--E.R. _


	6. Chapter 6

The glaring dullness of Tezuka's words, the simple way he let them leave his lips; everything felt wrong.

The clubroom had become too silent; the tennis clubroom was never meant to be this silent. It was like someone had pressed the mute button on a TV remote control; like someone pressed the pause button on a DVD player control even though eyes were moving, chests were heaving up and down from the intensity of today's tennis practice.

Horio started laughing, as if the whole thing was a joke. No one else joined in, and his laughing ceased after a few moments. Awkward silence encased the team, some trying to convince themselves that this was just a nightmare, and others trying to process this new information in their minds.

Horio spoke up, not getting Tezuka's meaning. "That kid is probably going to come back for a few days. He's not really resigning, not until he beats my two years of tennis experience!"

"Echizen Ryoma will not be coming back to the tennis club anymore," Tezuka stated, a sense of finality driving his words through everyone's minds. The tennis club suddenly came back to life, and waves of conversation were coming from all sides.

"He's not coming back? What the hell?!" one member said. "What do you mean he's not coming back?"

"He is not a part of this tennis team anymore," Tezuka said firmly. "He resigned yesterday."

A loud noise, paper sheets being ruffled and dropped, and all heads turned to Inui.

Something finally had gone completely opposite from Inui's data. The boy was trembling, and his pen clattered to the ground.

His green notebook lay silently on the floor, facing down.

Quietly, Tezuka withdrew a battered scrap of paper from his pocket, the messy, almost careless scrawl on it proclaiming Echizen's intentions.

"We should have done something," Kikumaru whispered brokenly. "Ochibi...something's wrong with him. Really wrong." The regulars couldn't really say anything about that, because it was true. The signs had been there, roiling with tension among the team member for the past month, but none of them had taken any action to appease Echizen, or even find out what was wrong with him.

Bit by bit pieces began to fall together. That horrid photo Fuji had taken, the stark grayness of it, the seemingly emptiness of it, as if it was a old photograph taken during World War II. That cloud of nothingness, something unexplainable, surrounding their kouhai. The cloud that enveloped him only seemed to get larger and larger, pushing people away without them even knowing it.

They understood now. They understood why tennis practices felt different, why there was so much tension in the boy.

He's the only boy, the first and probably last person, to have defied Inui's data so perfectly, as if it were on purpose.

_--cerebello--_

Momo decides to confront Echizen. He decides that he can't take any more of this, decides that he just _has_ to get some answers out of the younger boy.

He's there, waiting, after school with his bike in front of Echizen's house, and when Echizen _finally_ arrives home, with his tennis bag in hand, he looks up at Momo and just stares. He stares, with such empty eyes, that Momo takes a step back and stares right back at him, right into those depthless eyes that show no emotion.

He forgets for a moment, forgets why he's there, in the dark, standing in front of his friend's house, waiting. He forgets as he stares into those eyes, the gold gleaming. Then it's all over; Echizen breaks the eye contact and shifts his cap lower, jerking his head down and climbing up the steps to his house.

Momo speaks up, finally. "At least give us a answer."

Echizen doesn't turn around, his back facing his senpai.

"You can't just _resign_ in the middle of nowhere and not expect us to ask questions. You can't expect that you can just leave randomly and do whatever your please, abandoning the _team_, Echizen."

"I don't give a damn about the team anymore," Echizen mutters.

Momo grabs at him when these words come out. He grabs at him, and his hand hits the tennis bag, and he expects to fell rackets hitting back, but all he can feel is cloth.

The tennis bag Echizen is carrying is _empty_.

_--cerebello--_

"Here is the cart of books that need to be shelved for today, Echizen-kun," the librarian says, smiling sweetly at him. Echizen gives a quick nod and takes the cart away from her, walking amongst the aisles and aisles of books, shelving.

He thinks that shelving books might be a way to keep his mind off tennis. He shelves these books, comes across books about tennis, and hopes that nothing more from this library will remind him of that sport, the sport that he's been denying himself of these past two days.

It's for his own good, he decides. It's for his own good, and yet he can't stop thinking about the sport. He stares at the green carpet for a few seconds, wondering if it will help him as he takes a break from his shelving duties.

He stares at that dark green carpet, stares at it, and he can feel the blood pounding in his head for some reason, his breathing going at a faster rhythm. He can hear the _thunk_ of the ball, the imaginary little green ball that he can't see, and yet he can hear it bouncing up and down on the ground. The dark green swirls around in his vision, and he feels plastic in his hand, rubber, a familiar sense. He's holding something, he can't see what it is but he can feel it, he's holding something and there's the _thunk_ of the ball again, and the dark green burns into his eyes, into his vision, and-

"Echizen-kun?" the library says, looking worriedly into his eyes.

And then it's all over. He's back in the library again, looking at those brown shelves filled with books.

It's all over.


	7. Author's Note

Hi guys! :D

This is **hyperdude**. I would like to thank all of you for hanging with us after such a long absence, but several things interfered with our writing. The biggest factor was mostly just real life, however, I also regret to say that **Apple Snapple **is also no longer in POT fandom.

What does this mean for you? It means that I'm going to try to get this story back in action, but I'll be flying solo. I do have a fondness for this story, especially since all of you are such wonderful reviewers. I will do my best to continue this story, or get a semblance of an outline together. I will be a slow updater, but I will hang on as long as possible to this story. Those of you who have red my fic Logic will probably know what I'm talking about. XDDD

The chapters will be moving to my profile, and I will post new material from there. Some chapters will be smushed together and edited for grammar or other small things, but this is not a rewrite. The most drastic thing I would do would be to delete chapters entirely, but that isn't very likely. This copy of the story will probably not be deleted. But for your satisfaction, I won't post the new copy until I have a new chapter written up.

That being said, I hope you visit again when Cerebello Nervosa is revived! Thanks for all your support.

Big hugs all around,

hyperdude


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